


Arrival

by pweeyuh



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:01:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26298337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pweeyuh/pseuds/pweeyuh
Summary: He took a step towards the girl, taking her hand in his and saying something sweet about her hair, which really was quite pretty, that made her blush. But, even as he talked to her, he couldn’t stop himself from casting glances at the boy, though, who was a few inches taller than him, lanky and slight, eyes obscured by the glint of his glasses. His lips, small and pink, were slightly pursed. His hair was straight but seemed soft. He was perfect.
Relationships: Ootori Kyouya/Suoh Tamaki
Comments: 1
Kudos: 70





	Arrival

When the plane landed, Tamaki was expecting things to be overwhelmed. He was finally in Japan, the place he’d dreamed about for so long, the place his mother always took special care to tell him about. He expected his heart to leap from his chest, for his body to be filled with some overwhelming nationalist sentiment, for him to finally feel at home. But, in reality, all he felt was the jolt of the plane as the wheels hit the ground and his grandmother pinching his arm to scold him for daydreaming.

It was in the cab to his father’s house––his father’s _second_ house, this was crucial––that it finally hit him. He was here, in Japan, meeting his father for the first time. The patriotism he started to feel, the desire to sit under a kotatsu and eat oranges with his new family, was trumped immediately by his fear. His grandmother, whom he had only known for two days, already hated him. What if his father was the same?

His father’s second house was massive, done in the style of a Rococo mansion like in France. This was rather disappointing to Tamaki, who was still inspired by his mother’s stories of screen doors and kotatsu tables and tatami mats. He was doubly disappointed when nobody asked him to remove his shoes at the door. Defeated, and already wanting to live the life of a hermit in his bedroom with massive windows that he hated, he collapsed into his bed and began flipping through all the contacts in his phone.

He dialled his mother’s number and listened to the soft static on the other end, but when the phone rang out he was informed that her voicemail was disconnected. He tossed his phone to the other side of the mattress and closed his eyes. He wasn’t tired—he slept for most of the flight—but he wanted to be asleep, to be somewhere else. His fantasy of Japan, the traditionalist countryside he dreamed of, was so welcoming.

He didn’t realise he had slept through the night until the help came to wake him in the morning. They handed him a school uniform and told him to be downstairs for breakfast in half an hour. He thanked them in his clunky, tactless Japanese, then turned his attention to the uniform: white, pristine, with a high collar and a patch on the left breast bearing the school’s crest. It seemed like a French private school, filled with privileged children from all over the globe who only cared about you if you were the child of someone important. He had never been to a private school in France, but he knew that’s what they were like. He had watched enough TV to gather that most rich people were assholes.

He could barely eat his breakfast—just a bowl of fruit and an egg, he insisted he wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t stop thinking about his new school, his classmates, if he’d find a girlfriend. He had discovered recently that it was easy to get attention from girls. He had learned all the right things to say, all the looks and poses that would make them blush or giggle or lean into him and whisper their confessions of love. Maybe it would be different here, because he didn’t have the crutch of a mysterious Japanese father to fuel conversation or as firm a grip on the language, but a mysterious French mother and a charming foreign accent might work just as well.

The architecture of Ouran Academy was shocking to Tamaki. It seemed like an elaborate church complex, a set of great cathedrals surrounded by an abbey on one side and a nunnery on the other. The grounds were vast, dotted with small, secluded gardens that he wished he could sit in and pretend he was a rock or a bug or something else inconsequential that didn’t have to worry about schoolwork or whether or not his father hated him for being a bastard.

It was his father, the man he had never met but had forced him to move across the world and attend school here, who greeted him at the door. He didn’t know what to do when he saw him, he didn't recognise him until he introduced himself as Suoh Yuzuru. He was tall, and they looked nothing alike. The two of them looked so different that he almost doubted this man was his father. If it weren’t for the paternity test results his mother had shown him, he wouldn’t trust any of this. He always knew he was Japanese—his mother had made him take Japanese lessons and learn about the culture—but he could never see it in his face. When he was small, he used to stand in front of the mirror and look for his features that could be Japanese, but all he saw was a little French boy looking back at him.

Tamaki felt compelled to give his father a hug, but he was quickly pushed off and frowned at with a stern look in his eye that a teacher would give his student. It hurt him, being rejected by the man he had dreamed about for so long, but he supposed there was no reason to be so upset. He hadn’t come into this meeting with any expectations. He hadn’t been expecting to meet his father at all. But being rejected so quickly still stung.

“René,” he said, looking down his nose at him in a way that made him feel small. His French seemed rusty, but still good for a foreigner. “You will not act so informally with me in the future. You will address me as Chairman Suoh, as that is what I am. You will not transgress these boundaries. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he nodded. He couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes. His father led him inside, pointing out all the special features the school had to offer until they reached his homeroom class.

The rest of the third-years were off at their electives, except for two. His new homeroom teacher introduced them—a boy and a girl, the class representative and vice-representative, respectively—and Tamaki narrowed his eyes with concentration as he tried to translate all the words he didn’t quite know. He turned around, but his father was gone.

He took a step towards the girl, taking her hand in his and saying something sweet about her hair, which really was quite pretty, that made her blush. But, even as he talked to her, he couldn’t stop himself from casting glances at the boy, though, who was a few inches taller than him, lanky and slight, eyes obscured by the glint of his glasses. His lips, small and pink, were slightly pursed. His hair was straight but seemed soft. He was perfect.

“I’m Tamaki,” he said, then stopped himself. “No, sorry. I’m Suoh.” His cheeks were getting hot. “I’m still not used to this name thing.” He put on the blinding smile that he used when making his appearance at adult parties, warm, inviting, but still a little distant. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m Ootori,” the boy replied. He lifted his arm, first to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then to extend to him to shake, which he took gingerly, as if his hand would break if he touched it too hard.

“I can show you around the school, if you’d like,” Ootori offered, and Tamaki nodded with vigour, even though he just saw the whole campus and his feet were already hurting from walking so much. He had no friends here, nobody to talk to, nobody to teach him better Japanese, nobody to understand him. And then this boy, without being forced, offered to show him around. Something about him made Tamaki’s chest feel like it was full of flowers. He had a _friend_. He had never had a friend, not even in France, when he was normal. He was too worried about his mother’s health to distract himself with kids his age. Now, here in Japan, he was the mixed-race bastard of the school’s chairman. He was sure people were whispering about him already, but Ootori chose to look past this and offer him kindness.

“Yes,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too stupid. “Please. I’d like that.”

Ootori’s tour was far more in depth than his father’s, maybe because he didn’t want to go back to class. Tamaki decided to believe it was because they were friends. He couldn’t stop looking at him––he could hardly peel his eyes off of him even when he was showing him some classroom or other. He looked so Japanese, so normal. He would blend in with a crowd of people, normal people, except maybe for his height. He looked how Tamaki wished he could look, like he could disappear into anonymity like he could in France, like Ootori surely could here. Everyone here was Japanese and beautiful. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed, and had a lost look on his face. He wondered if Ootori would be his mentor, to teach him how to speak, to be, to carry himself.

These thoughts of friendship consumed him until he couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t even realise Ootori was in the middle of a sentence when he asked, “Oh, yeah. I was going to ask you, Ootori, does your family have a kotatsu table?”

His classmate looked shocked.

“It’s just that, I told myself that when I got to Japan I’d sit under a kotatsu table.” He grinned, a real grin this time. “I think they’re so wonderful.” His smile left as quickly as it came, and he looked forlornly into the courtyard. “But all the decor at my father’s house is Western.” His mother had told him about these tables, the ones with the blankets on the side and a heater underneath. She had always told him that sitting at one of these tables with someone you love is the best thing in the world. He didn’t know how she knew this, she had never travelled outside of the EU, but he believed her. He wanted that so badly, more than anything, to sit with his father and grandmother under a kotatsu table and eat mandarins.

“Our family doesn’t have a kotatsu, either.” Ootori was clearly put off by him, Tamaki would tell. “But our house does have Japanese decor.”

This filled Tamaki with a deep sadness. Ootori didn’t have a kotatsu. He could tell in that moment that they were the same, neglected by their families, lacking the tenderness of fatherly love. He didn’t know what to do, so he just looked at his classmate with tears welling up in his eyes. Ootori was shocked, not sure what boundary he had transgressed.

“I see,” he said, picking his words wisely. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Your family must not be very close. That’s so sad.”

“I don’t understand––” Tamaki put a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. I know that kotatsu are a symbol of a happy home here in Japan. Families all sit together and watch TV, no? It’s an important bonding experience.” He gave Ootori a very earnest look, trying to tell him that he understood, that he was there. Ootori just looked irritated.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he smiled, masking his annoyance only very thinly. “But if it means so much to you, I’m sure we could get one.”

Tamaki’s heart soared. Not only did Ootori just offer to get a kotatsu table just for him to use, he implied that Tamaki was invited to his home.

“You’d do that for me? That’s really nice of you.” He couldn’t contain his smile. “That means we’re friends.” Feeling brave, he reached out and wrapped his arms around his new friend. “You should call me Tamaki. Can I call you by your first name?”

“Sure,” he hesitated, “Tamaki.”

“Thank you, Kyoya,” he laughed, leaning in so their cheeks were touching. “We’re going to be great friends. Best friends.”

* * *

Over the next few days, he spent all his free time with Kyoya. Tamaki even learned his schedule so he could “accidentally” drop in on his classes during his free period. Sometimes he’d bring his friend a snack or coffee, and sometimes he’d just sit in the empty desk next to him and watch him take notes in silence. After that they’d walk to Kyoya’s next class together and chat, mostly about what Tamaki wanted to see now that he was in Japan. Once Kyoya was at his desk, Tamaki had to run to his own class so as not to be late, but he didn’t mind it. Bursting into a classroom seconds before the passing period ended was exhilarating.

On weekends, they would pass time at the Ootori residence, usually doing homework together. Kyoya helped him with math, and Tamaki tutored him in French. They’d hold short conversations until Kyoya inevitably slipped back into Japanese and Tamaki cuffed him on the side of the head as a punishment. “You’ll never be able to talk to a real French person if you do that,” he’d scold, and Kyoya would roll his eyes and say, “But you’re not a real French person,” and Tamaki would laugh and blush. Then they’d do their English homework together.

The fifth weekend they spent together marked a change for Tamaki. Now, as he stood at the door of Kyoya’s room, he felt nervous. It wasn’t like this was something unfamiliar to him––he’d been here loads of times by now––but today somehow was different. He suddenly felt underdressed, his jumper seemed too plain, his shoes weren’t shined enough, his hair that he styled to seem effortless seemed _too_ effortless. He felt himself start to sweat.

When Kyoya opened the door, though, it was as if someone had flipped a switch and turned off his anxiety. He felt nothing. He was completely blank. He took a step into the room and sat down at the table in the middle, taking a few minutes for his trance to wear off.

“Do you feel okay?” Kyoya asked, and he just blinked at him. He had completely lost his grasp on the Japanese language. All he could do was nod and stare.

Kyoya was a very handsome boy. Tamaki knew this. He had noticed it the day they met. But something about him was different. He looked taller, or something. More grown up, more intense. His stomach was beginning to flutter from looking at him so long, his cheeks were getting hot.

“Uh,” he broke his silence, averting his eyes to his lap. “Do you have any French homework?”

“Not this weekend, no,” Kyoya shook his head. “I don’t have anything.” That struck Tamaki as odd––if Kyoya didn’t have any French homework, why was he sitting there? Kyoya was _his_ best friend, but it wasn’t like he was Kyoya’s. More often than not, he seemed annoyed with him and his cultural ineptitude, his loud voice and rough Japanese.

“Do you want some tea?” he asked. Tamaki noticed there was a plug-in kettle on the shelf behind them.

“Oh, Sure.” He smiled. “Thank you.” He paused, thinking of what to say next. “I hate to sound rude, but why am I here? If you don’t have homework you need help with, why did you invite me over? I’m sure you have better things to do on a Saturday than sit with me all afternoon.”

Kyoya, whose back was turned to him, suddenly stopped what he was doing.

“What are you talking about?” he seemed angry, and Tamaki felt bad.

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t bring himself to look up. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought you’d want a break from me.”

“We’re _friends_ ,” Kyoya said firmly. “You’ve been saying it since the day we met. Don’t you want to do the stuff friends do?”

Tamaki put a hand over his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you probably had something more important to do.”

“That doesn’t make you sound any better.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” he snapped. He had taken off his glasses, and he looked even more handsome than five minutes ago. He was holding a mug of tea in his hand. “Just be quiet for a bit. You told me you wanted to go to Kyoto. Let’s go this weekend.”

Tamaki’s eyes lit up, and Kyoya smiled.

“Really?” he asked. “You’re taking me to Kyoto?”

“Sure. I invited you over so we could plan the trip.”

“Thank you, Kyoya!” he laughed, standing quickly so he could hug his friend and then pace around the room excitedly, talking to nobody in particular about all the things he wanted to do and see until Kyoya reminded him that half of these things weren’t even _in_ Kyoto, which made him so sad he had to sit back down.

They continued like this for a few hours, until the sun was beginning to set. They had settled on the floor next to each other, laying on their stomachs, chins resting on the palms of their hands, taking turns scribbling down notes in Kyoya’s agenda. They stopped when Tamaki’s phone rang. His grandmother was on the other end, yelling at him for poor time management and how terrible he was—the usual. Apparently he’d missed some meeting his father had invited him to the day before. This didn’t bother him too much, he didn’t care about his father’s business in the slightest, but the thought of disappointing his family scared him. He stood quickly, and made his way towards the door, still apologising to his grandmother.

“Is something wrong?” Kyoya asked, and Tamaki smiled, shaking his head. He put his hand over the microphone and shook his head.

“Everything’s fine. I should get going, though.” He gave Kyoya a quick hug, then hurried out the door, shedding the house slippers he’d borrowed at the door to put on his outdoor shoes. Even though he was in a rush, he still took a moment to appreciate the use of slippers inside Japanese homes. He had always thought that was so sweet—the distinction between outdoor and indoor clothing.

Tamaki hated how rich people in the movies always drove around in black cars with tinted windows, and he hated even more that this was now his most frequent mode of transportation. He wished he could be unaware of his situation, to live in his privilege but not see it, but something about that felt even more wrong than being in one of these cars in the first place. He watched as the Tokyo suburbs unfolded around him, nice residential neighbourhoods that got thinner and thinner as the wealth brackets grew higher. He wished he could live in a normal-sized house in a normal neighbourhood like back in France, but he knew he’d probably never experience normal ever again, not unless he cut himself off from his new family. That wouldn’t do him any good. Without the Suohs, he was alone. He had no way of knowing where his mother was, no way of contacting her. If he were to lose his family in Japan, he would lose everything. He would be completely and utterly alone. It almost sounded liberating if it weren’t so terrifying.

Kyoya proposed they take the Shinkansen to Kyoto, which was probably the most exciting thing Tamaki had heard in weeks. He could barely contain himself, nearly jumping up and down on the platform as they waited for the train.

“We’ve still got two hours until we get there,” Kyoya scolded him, and Tamaki nodded, standing stick straight. He felt like he’d been struck by lightning and he was filled with that energy, needing to let it out somehow before he exploded. Cautiously, as if it were life or death, he took Kyoya’s hand in his. Neither of them moved, they hardly even breathed, until the train arrived, and they pretended as if the gust of wind blew them apart. They couldn’t bring each other to speak on the journey, but as they were passing Atami, Tamaki offered Kyoya one of his earbuds, and they listened to music together for the rest of the ride. Only once the suburbs of Nagoya were appearing in blurred visions outside the train’s window, Tamaki dared to speak again.

“Have you ever had feelings for anyone?” he asked. He was too scared to breathe again. Kyoya thought for a long time as he chose an answer.

“I think so,” he nodded. “Maybe. I don’t really know what love is like, but I think I’ve definitely had feelings for someone before at least once.”

“Have you ever had feelings for a boy?” His face was bright red. Kyoya almost wanted to laugh at him if it weren’t for how much he wanted to kiss him.

“Mhm,” he nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Okay,” Tamaki was looking out the window, somehow even redder than before. “Cool.”

Their hotel was in the more modern part of the city, but Tamaki was quick to drag his friend to the suburbs, oohing and aahing at the architecture and the trees and just about everything that seemed otherwise insignificant. They sat for lunch in one of those tiny, hole-in-the-wall places that made Kyoya want to scream and knock over what small furniture they had then run onto the street and gulp in breaths of air like it was water, and Tamaki ordered enough to feed around five people. Of course, he couldn’t finish it all, and Kyoya scolded him for being so greedy, which caused Tamaki to start tearing up and apologising in a way that made him seem small and frightened, as if he thought Kyoya would just leave him there with his mountain of leftovers. Kyoya’s throat ached when Tamaki spoke that way. He sighed, and asked the waiter to pack up what was left, and they set off. Tamaki was dead-set on going to Kinkaku-ji first, so Kyoya called a car to take them out of town.

The place was crowded, teeming with fat American fathers in sandals and Japanese families that were dwarves in comparison. Tamaki stood out, dressing and sounding like a local but with the face of a foreigner. Kyoya thought it was funny when a schoolgirl asked him if she could take a picture with him, and Tamaki replied with an emphatic, “Yes!” Her face of shock when she realised he understood her was priceless. They walked around in the gardens for a while until Tamaki grew impatient. Grabbing Kyoya by the wrist, he hurried forward, and together they pushed their way through sardine-packed crowds to get a good look at the pavilion from across the pond. Kyoya noticed Tamaki’s breath getting a little heavier as he snapped a few pictures, but didn’t think much of it. He also noticed him pat his pockets down for something and how his face got pale when he didn’t find anything. He was about to say something about it when Tamaki turned to him. 

“It’s so beautiful here,” he said quietly. He was starting to wheeze now. Kyoya frowned.

“Are you alright?” Tamaki nodded, although he couldn’t manage to catch his breath. Now, Kyoya was the one who took his wrist and brought him away from the throng. They parked themselves on a bench by the park’s entrance, and Tamaki sat there and wheezed for a few minutes while Kyoya watched, his eyebrows knit together. He could tell Tamaki was starting to panic, his eyes were cloudy with tears and he was shaking, but it still took him off guard when he grabbed his hand and held it tightly, using his free one to cover his mouth as he coughed.

“Tamaki, can you breathe?” He shook his head.

“Shit,” Kyoya rubbed his temples for a moment, then linked their elbows and led his friend, now stumbling, to their car. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“Don’t call my family,” he gasped, tugging a bit on his sleeve.

“What? Why wouldn’t I call your family?”

“Dad’s gone. Business.” He let out a cough that was particularly painful, and he took a moment to let his burning throat calm down, which it did not. “And I don’t want to bother my grandmother.” 

Once they sat down, Tamaki’s wheezing subsided, and Kyoya felt himself relax until he turned to him and noticed his fingers and lips were blue. He shouted at the driver to go faster, that it wasn’t a problem if they got a ticket, that Tamaki’s life was more important than a speed limit. Tamaki’s vision and hearing were drifting in and out, but he could tell Kyoya was upset, and he knew they were still holding hands. He tried to say something comforting, like, “I’ve had asthma for years, it’s fine,” or “Sorry for scaring you, I’m alright,” but when he opened his mouth to speak, no sounds came out. Kyoya didn’t seem to notice his attempts to talk––he was too busy petting his hair and telling him to try to breathe––but he did notice when he saw his eyes start to close. This clearly made him more panicked than he already was, and he started slapping Tamaki’s face with increasing intensity to try and get him to wake up. This was unsuccessful, but Tamaki could still feel the sting of his palm on his cheek.

He woke up to the smell of antiseptic. There was a mask over his nose and mouth pumping oxygen into him, and he felt like he couldn’t move. Kyoya was standing next to him. He was tucked in up to his shoulders by a pink fleece blanket with Hello Kitty’s face printed on it. This made him laugh, which alerted Kyoya that he was awake.

“Oh my God,” he sighed. “You’re okay. What the hell was that?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He could only speak on exhales. “I’ve got asthma. I left my inhaler at the hotel.”

“Fuck. Do you know how stupid that was? I thought you were _dying_.”

Tamaki just nodded. He let his head roll to the right so he was just looking at Kyoya’s hands, which were gripping the bed’s sideboard. He felt bad that he was upset, but he was sure now that the level of upset wasn’t enough to end their friendship, especially when Tamaki was still the injured Prince Charming in the hospital bed.

“What’s with the blanket?” he asked, feeling bad that his impulses took over him like that. If nothing else, he was grateful for its warmth.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kyoya shrugged. “They had it in the gift shop. You wouldn’t stop shaking at first so I thought I’d get it for you.”

“Have I been asleep for long?”

“Not really. Just a couple of hours.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep for so long.” He tried to sit up quickly which made him dizzy. Kyoya pushed him back against his pillows. He wondered how a fifteen year-old could be so calm in this situation––Tamaki could have easily died on the way to the hospital, but Kyoya was still wearing that same, irritated look he always did. It made him almost uneasy.

“Just rest a bit longer,” he offered. His face was softer now. “You can’t leave until your IV drip runs out, anyways. I called your father.”

“What?” Tamaki’s heartbeat picked up a little on the monitor. “Why did you do that? I told you not to call anyone.”

“You turned _blue_ , Tamaki. I wasn’t going to _not_ call your family. Your father’s cut his meetings in Fukuoka short and is on his way to take you home. I brought your stuff from the hotel.” Tamaki didn’t know how to express everything he was feeling, so he just covered his face with his hands and held his breath until his vision started to get spotty and Kyoya had to shake him and remind him to start breathing again. After that, they sat together in silence for a few more minutes until Kyoya received a text informing him that Suoh Yuzuru had arrived in Kyoto, upon the reception of which Tamaki insisted he leave so that he could face his father’s anger alone.

Kyoya waited outside the door for a few minutes after the elder Suoh’s arrival, and listened to him speak in a low voice, trying to pick out what he was saying until he realised the chairman was speaking in rapid French. Tamaki’s voice was less quiet––he was apologising profusely, his words muddled by tears––and it made his heart break. He wanted to go back in and hug his friend, but he understood how that might be considered inappropriate. With some hesitation, he called a cab, and made his way back to the hotel. 

* * *

Government holidays and the occasional long weekend were precious to him. Since his early return from Kyoto, Kyoya had decided to show him the rest of Japan at a pace that wouldn’t excite him into a fit. This weekend was Okinawa, and they’d be staying at some historical inn. Tamaki was buzzing, only half-listening when Kyoya told him their plans. He wondered how a fifteen year-old was so good at planning vacations.

“The place we’re staying is small,” Kyoya warned as they stepped off the plane. Tamaki couldn’t stop staring at his Adam’s apple, entranced by how it bobbed up and down as he talked. “I could only get us one room. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he waved a hand to dismiss him. “I don’t mind. Thank you for planning all of this. I really appreciate it, Kyoya. You’re the best.”

“No problem.” He frowned and looked down at Tamaki. “But Tamaki, I want you to bring your inhaler everywhere. Tokyo is far away. I can’t just bring you home quickly.” His face was red. He was so cute it made Tamaki’s chest tighten.

“Uh-huh. Okay. I promise I will.”

They left their things at the hotel and spent the day at the various castles, stopping in between to sit on the beach and chat. For the first time, Tamaki was compelled to tell Kyoya about France, about his mother, about the few people he could confidently call his friends. Kyoya pretended he was interested, nodding along and saying “mm, yeah, hm,” to show he was being a good and active listener, and Tamaki hugged him, pulling his head into the space where his neck met his shoulder.

“Thank you for being my friend,” he whispered. Kyoya’s glasses slipped from his nose onto the sand behind them.

He inhaled sharply in the way he always did when he was annoyed, and Tamaki let his arms fall to his sides, but Kyoya didn’t move. He felt Kyoya’s shoulders shaking, and it took him a few seconds to realise he was crying.

“What happened?” he asked, resuming the embrace. “Don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“Sorry,” Kyoya muttered, wiping his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m glad we’re friends, Tamaki. I’m really glad.” Tamaki grinned, and Kyoya pulled his shirtsleeves over his hands to wipe his eyes. Crying made him look much younger than he was, hands swallowed by his Oxford shirt, eyes red and eyelashes clumped together from tears. His lips were still quivering.

“You don’t have to apologise! I’m sorry if I made you sad.”

“No, it’s okay. I don’t really know why I’m crying.” He picked up his glasses and brushed the sand from them before he put them back on. He could feel Tamaki’s eyes on him, but he tried to ignore them.

It was then that Tamaki sprung into a crouching position, cupped Kyoya’s right cheek with the palm of his left hand and kissed him. It was sweet, gentle. He had been waiting for this moment. In his shock, Kyoya couldn’t pull away, nor could he kiss back, so he just let himself fall back onto the sand, Tamaki above him, their lips locked.

  
  



End file.
